Sleeping Dogs
by smash interrupted
Summary: Price barely got Soap out of Afghanistan alive. Now, several weeks after rescuing him from death's door, Price is stuck between a rock and a hard place. Hunted by friends and enemies alike, and with their supplies running low, he needs to keep them safe - a tall order, considering that Soap needs a hospital. Not a rundown safe-house in the local slum... Following MW2. MW3 AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Sleeping Dogs  
** Chapter One

* * *

'Price...'

His voice is rough - cracked, as it rumbles out of a disused throat. Soap swallows a few seconds later, trying to dislodge whatever frog had taken up residence. It doesn't really work, and he wheezes incoherently for a bit, his eyes pleading as the silhouette became less of a shadow and more of a man.

'Price, _don't_ -'

The needle slides into his skin, quick and almost painless. A warm hand is wrapped around his bicep - which is far leaner than it had been two weeks earlier - holding it in place as the plunger is slowly pushed down. Soap's gaunt face radiates anger and dejection, before his eyelids forcibly close shut.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

Plates clatter in the small sink, Price as grim-faced as ever as he turns on the tap and watches lukewarm water splash into the basin. It's an odd sort of colour. Dark like black tea, as though it's been stained by tannin. He lets it run, waiting – the chore a good excuse as any to ignore the eyes glaring daggers at his back.

Nikolai isn't happy, it seems. Though Price is hard-pressed to remember a time where the Russian had been in the past month. Living life on the run, with every old friend they'd ever had suddenly out for their blood, wasn't exactly a party pleaser. That was for bloody sure.

A soft sigh sounds behind him, disappointed, frustrated. 'You cannot keep doing that to him, my friend.'

'We're out of painkillers, Nikolai,' Price collects the cleanest rag from the sill and starts wiping, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

'I know that, Price.'

'And you think it would be kinder to let him spend every waking moment in bloody agony?'

Rustling fabric, and an irritated _harrumph_. Price knows without turning that Nikolai's crossed his arms, probably looking far from impressed. He puts it out of his mind, sliding his first plate into their makeshift draining rack.

'At least he would have a waking moment, no?' Nikolai says. 'It is almost as if you do not hear his _begging_ every time he comes around.'

Another plate joins the second, the resulting clatter harsh in both their ears as Price lets his control slip. His scarred knuckles turn white as he clenches his fist, because he does hear it - Soap's broken voice telling him to _stop_ , the weak struggles, the _betrayal_ that stabs deeper than it rightly should. Price knows he's doing the right thing, _knows_ it, but even that doesn't stop the guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders.

He takes a deep breath. Exhales.

Slowly, Price unfurls his fingers and reaches back below the water, not deigning to respond.

Silence reigns supreme, and then;

' _Price_.'

... If only Nikolai could get over his bloody obsession with being Price's conscience. Grunting in annoyance - annoyance which only grows as he yet again finds himself contending with day old melted cheese stuck to a fork - Price finally bites back.

'Five minutes out of his coma and he'll be begging us to put him back in it.' Price scowls at the cutlery in his hand, eventually tossing it back into the murky depths. 'He didn't scrape his knee, Nikolai - his bloody insides were hanging out.'

It's not fair. It's not fair to insinuate that Nikolai didn't understand the magnitude of what had happened - of how terrifyingly close they'd come to losing Soap back in Afghanistan. Because even though Nikolai had been flying the helicopter, even though it'd been _Price_ fighting desperately to keep the reaper at bay with hands that were coated in hot, sticky blood - the Russian had still been there. Throwing glances over his shoulder, tight-lipped, as he'd broken more than one international law trying to get Soap to a person that could save him. So no, it's not fair. But Price isn't buckling on this one. Even if he has to fight dirty.

Luckily for the both of them, Nikolai has had several decades to come to terms with the fact that Price is an arse. And without so much as batting an eye, the Russian rolls his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. 'Then let him.'

Price frowns, turning to look at the other man. He makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, not quite understanding.

Nikolai explains. 'Let him wake up and realize it is not all sunshine and roses, hm? Then maybe he will at least accept your... _solution_.'

'No.'

'Why not, my friend?'

'That's not a tough life lesson I'm going to teach.' Price says, not because he wouldn't, but because he had absolutely no doubt in his mind that the hard-headed bastard was actually going to learn anything from it. Soap wasn't the kind of man that could accept what was best for him, if it wasn't what he wanted.

There is a bark of surprised laughter - harsh and abrupt. Nikolai looks amused. 'How noble of you, Price.'

Price snorts a little, returning to the fork he'd abandoned for a second round. 'It's been known to happen.'

'Regardless, he is going to hate you for it.' Nikolai says - not a warning, but a promise. 'And it may take you longer than you have to fix it.'

There's no outward indication of his feelings - Price still steadfastly cleaning, occupying his mind with a physical task. Not wanting to let it wander, not when it was this late in the game. The losses they'd suffered so far... had left Price with the very real feeling that anymore and he might not be able to come back from this. Anymore, and they'd - _he'd_ \- be done.

'Not a whole lot I can do about that,' Price tells his friend, before pulling the plug on the sink and letting the brown water drain away. He flicked his hands - wiped them on his shirt, then turned to face Nikolai. 'Not without the kind of drugs we'd get our arses shot trying to find.'

'That has never stopped you before.'

'Different circumstances.'

Nikolai hums, dirty nails scratching at a week's worth of stubble. His pale blue eyes meet Price's, and before he can open his mouth, Price is shaking his head.

'... I wouldn't ask you to do that.'

Nikolai cocks his head to the side, smiling softly. 'You would not need to ask.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Sleeping Dogs  
** Chapter Two

* * *

'You look terrible, my friend...'

He's not joking - Soap's pale, taut skin is starting to look far too stretched across pointed bones. Nikolai makes a mental note to give the younger man a more substantial meal the next time they place the nasal feeding tube down his throat and into his stomach, pumping him full of Ensure. They've done it so many times now that the guilt doesn't bother him quite as much, though the fact that this is almost the exact method used in places like Guantanamo Bay isn't lost on him.

It's used in hospitals too, Nikolai knows. But there's a fundamental difference between that, and this. One that he can't readily explain, even though what they're doing to Soap is out of medical necessity.

A soft sigh breaks the resounding silence in the room. Nikolai tries to force the thoughts, the moral dilemma, out of his head, as he leans over Soap, gently teasing medical tape away from his skin. It isn't his turn to do this - to change Soap's dressing and clean him up the best he can - but Price, even with his stubbornness and unwavering pride, is starting to seem more and more haggard each time he has to step into this room. Despite his sharp words and determination about them doing the right thing, Nikolai can see through it - can see the strain in Price's eyes, the tightness in his jaw.

And sometimes, on the harder days, Nikolai finds an excuse to play nurse.

Finally pulling away Soap's dirty bandages, he swears a little under his breath. The wound - jagged and larger than it had been when Shepherd had actually stabbed him, courtesy of an infection - is red, swollen, and oozing discharge too coloured to be healthy. Nikolai frowns, turning the gauze he'd just taken from the injury over in his hands. There's pus, speckles of blood - the distinct scent of _another_ infection.

Beneath him, on a bed covered in sheets and towels, Soap shifts. It's an involuntary movement as far as Nikolai can tell, but as his concerned gaze flicks back to Soap, he's given pause. The younger man's forehead is creased - distress etched into features that had been almost peaceful a minute before. Nikolai takes it in, momentarily caught with disbelief, alarm - he hadn't thought Soap was all that aware, with the tranquilliser Price had given him earlier - and then he's discarding the bandages, words erupting from his lips instinctively.

'…Though I cannot blame you, no? It is the face your _мама_ gave you.' Nikolai says, tone light with teasing as he picks up a cloth, damp with water and gentle soaps, and washes the wound. Being himself is about as comforting as he can get, especially when Soap's chances have started taking another turn for the worse. He's not about to have a lengthy conversation with the poor bastard about his not-so-clear fate. 'Not much you can do about that.'

There's a low grumble - not really a distinctive noise, but Nikolai decides to hear disapproval anyway.

'Oh, you do not like my jokes?' Nikolai shakes his head, patting the injury dry before quickly sterilising his hands. He starts delicately packing Soap's wound - knowing this time that the grunt his patient makes is one of pain. 'Perhaps you should get better then, hm? Then you can tell me yourself.'

Soap responds with a low keening sound, his face crumpling further. Nikolai grits his teeth and keeps going, forcing himself to be slow and careful, as much as he wants to be done with this. Having inserted most of the saline-soaked gauze into Soap's open wound, he takes a few moments to make sure he hasn't caused any more damage - any tears or bleeding that he'll need to deal with – before finally finishing up with a dressing to cover the injury externally.

'There,' he murmurs, double-checking that his handiwork is secure before pulling away. 'All done.'

The reassurance doesn't seem to register - Soap's breathing is still rapid, his expression still pained. Nikolai covers him with a new, clean blanket, silent as he tries to figure out what to say. How to comfort a man who's whose torment is partly being caused by Nikolai himself.

Eventually, Nikolai reaches down, wrapping a hand around Soap's bony shoulder and squeezing. It's meant to be a comfort, but Soap doesn't seem to notice it - his awareness of physical gestures apparently limited to ones inflicting a certain type of agony - or that's what Nikolai tells himself, rationalising.

'When you get out of this, my friend - punch me in the face, yes?' Nikolai smiles wearily. 'I feel like I deserve that.'

The creases in Soap's brow smooth out a little at the offer, and not for the first time, Nikolai feels his gut twisting. It's a response. He knows it is a response - knows that in his own way, Soap has been responding to him since he walked in. And if Soap is aware of Nikolai's voice, then what else is he aware of?

The _hurt_?

Have they forced Soap into a never-ending sleep, filled with hours upon hours of suffering and no voice to tell them?

Nikolai suddenly finds himself squeezing harder, throat constricting at the thought. He wants to look away - to scrub the idea out of his head, because what else is there? What else can they do with what they have, right now?

Nothing - that was his answer. They could do nothing, but Nikolai has already committed to fixing that. Though perhaps he's committed to the wrong person.

'I will get you out of this.'

The promise slips from his lips - easy, resolute. Like it isn't the beginning of an obituary buried on the _Kabul Weekly's_ 47th page. It's exactly what he'd said to Price not an hour earlier, but somehow, this time, it holds more significance.

'I promise, no? Just wait for me, my friend. I will fix this.'

The remaining lines on Soap's face finally iron out - a mutual understanding seemingly passing between them. Nikolai always kept his word, come hell or high water. That, at least, the both of them knew.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

Opiates. Antibiotics. Bandages, gauze, saline solutions, nasogastric tubes, cleaning supplies, extra towels, sheets, tweezers, disposal bags, catheters, IV lines…

Nikolai pinches the bridge of his nose, glaring down at the list hastily scrawled in Russian. It's not complete, and he can already feel a headache coming on. 'It is not like I can simply walk into a store and buy this, Price.'

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, Price snorts - deprecatingly amused. 'If that was your original plan, then you were shafted from the beginning.'

An irritated roll of his eyes. Nikolai taps his pen against the wooden table, eyes flicking from his notepad, to the map he'd spread out in front of him, to the firearms he'd assembled nearby. Opiates, he is sure he can find on the street. In shadier places just out of sight. But the rest…

'This would be easier if you had not traumatised the doctor we got to see him the last time, you know.'

Price grunted. 'She panicked.'

'You held a gun to her head.'

'Insurance.'

'She was not going to let him die.'

'I couldn't take that risk.'

Nikolai shakes his head, thinking better of saying what was on the tip of his tongue. _Trust issues_. He was aware that Price had always had them, to an extent, but his time in the Gulag had amplified them tenfold.

Scribbling down several more items, he rips the page out of his book and tucks it into his jacket.

'I will sort it out,' he says, folding up the map and sliding that into the back pocket of his jeans. 'There are places I can go. People I can see. If not, the MSF camp… it is still operating, no? At least our lady friend will know the drill.'

Price looks none-to-pleased at the suggestion. 'Only as a last resort.'

'No,' Nikolai denies with an air of authority. 'Kamarov is our last resort.'

And only because those that were looking for them knew that they had a connection to the Loyalists. Nikolai knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that any attempts to communicate with their allies would land them in hot water. The airwaves were being monitored.

'Hm,' Price responds, looking even less pleased at that revelation. He doesn't argue, though, understanding through the sourness that this was the hand they were dealt. 'Just make bloody sure you come back.'

Nikolai laughs. 'Your concern is sweet, Price. It makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside.'

'If you do find that doctor again, you might want to get that checked.'

'I think I will pass,' Nikolai stands. Stuffs a pistol into his waistband, like a common thug, and straightens his jacket over it. 'But really - have I ever let you down before?'

'No,' Price replies, tilting his head slightly. 'But you know what they say - it's never too late for an old dog to learn new tricks.'

'Not this old dog.' Nikolai finally turns, meeting Price's gaze - the grin on his face does not bely the seriousness of his words. 'I'll be back. Just look after him while I am gone, yes? And yourself, Price. You need sleep.'

Price cocks an eyebrow at that. 'I'll sleep when I'm dead.'

A shake of his head, as Nikolai heads towards the door. Some people never changed. '… That's what I worry about, my friend.'

* * *

A/N - I just wanted to say a quick thank you to **Little Yellow Sunflower, annabellecutie** **and anon** for their reviews, and to everyone for the favs/follows - it was really amazing to get feedback.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sleeping Dogs  
** Chapter Three

* * *

It's always the fan that wakes him.

It creaks above the bed - all twisted blades and rusted metal, as it rotates through the air. Sleepless nights have never been a rarity, but with the relentless noise and Afghanistan's unforgiving heat leaving sheets sticking to his skin, Price is beginning to lose what little patience he has left.

It's always the fan that wakes him.

Price listens to it in silence, cracking an eyelid wearily and watching its next pass through the darkness. If this house had been his own, he would have ripped the bloody thing out of the ceiling by now. But it's not his house - that's back in Hereford, no doubt gutted beyond recognition - and as the seconds tick by, the abrupt sound of somebody pounding on the door brings realisation and complete awareness in equal measure.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

 **Two Weeks Earlier**

 ** _2,543 ft  
_** ** _August 16th, 18:32:01  
_** ** _Lashkar Gah, Afghanistan_**

'… _How does it look?'_

 _Sugar coating the truth has never been Price's forte - an unfortunate fact considering their current circumstances. Blood coating his fingers, the disavowed Captain tears open an ABD dressing with his teeth._

' _Give it a few minutes, Soap,' he says, spitting out the strip of plastic in his mouth. Not wasting time, he teases out the bandage. 'And you might be wishing we hadn't benched your bonnie lass back in Petropavlovsk.'_

 _Soap groans, wincing. Mostly from pain, but there might have been a little indignation in it too._ _'I told you, old man, it's not li - argh - like…'_

' _\- Hold still, Soap -'_

' _Like that. 'Sides, it was you who benched - Christ…'_

 _Soap jerks involuntarily, and the non-adherent wound pad Price is halfway through applying slips, exposing yet again what Price has already determined to be the younger man's small intestine, poking out through the jagged gash in his skin._

' _The bloody hell are you doing to me?" Soap says, though it's more of a hiss - his jaw clenched against the steadily growing agony. He starts to sit up, neck craning to try and see. 'Is that…? Shite -'_

' _Down,' Price barks, keeping his dressing in place with one hand as he uses the other to push Soap back against the helicopter's floor. His gaze is sharp, steely - an edge lingering in there that seems to cow the hard-headed bastard. 'I taught you better than that.'_

 _There's a moment of silence, at least from Soap - the rhythmic whup, whup, whup of the rotor blades overhead filling the confined space. Price does his level best to block it out, repositioning the pad on Soap's abdomen with one hand and pulling the dressing's tail underneath him. It's a complex task - frustrating._

 _Beneath him, Soap grumbles - breathless, lips greying on a face getting steadily paler._ _'…Like a damn dog…'_

' _A dog knows how to do as it's told.'_

 _That earns him a choked laugh, though it quickly turns into another groan. Soap's adrenaline - left over from the firefight, from his brawl with Shepherd - is wearing off, receding to the point where it's not just an ache anymore. Soon enough it will be a full blown, out-and-out, searing torture._

 _And they both know it._

 _Price finishes up securing the bandages in place, tying the two ends of the dressing into a non-slip knot at Soap's side rather than on top of the injury itself. Without missing a beat, he moves on to the next task - placing an IV line, to keep Soap's blood volume and pressure up until they reach help._

 _Wherever that is._

 _Like most men in their profession - with more muscle mass than most else - Soap's veins are big and easy to see. Standing out like large diameter pipes on bare terrain. Price has the tourniquet wrapped around Soap's arm for less than thirty seconds before he's found a sucker to stick._

 _The needle jabs in. Price sees the flashback of blood indicating success, and seats the cannula the rest of the way, taping the catheter hub to Soap._

'… _Price.'_

 _He doesn't look up from what he's doing - checking the flow of fluid into the line. The IV bag is suspended above him. Price checks that too, his calmness instilled by several decades of experience and one fateful rotation through A &E._

 _Doesn't stop him from swallowing hard, though, when Soap's voice rasps out again._

' ** _Price…'_**

' _You'll be fine, Soap,' Price says, meeting Soap's gaze. There's something dark in there now - concern, uncertainty. The reality is dawning - how bad a state he was actually in having hidden itself from the younger Captain until Price had cut away his shirt. 'It's just a scratch.'_

' _Changing your tune -_ ** _shite_** _\- this… this quickly, eh?' Soap does his best to muster a grin, despite the sweat on his brow - the haze growing in his eyes. 'Should I be worried?'_

 _Price shakes his head, back to hovering over his patient. Soap is on his back, knees-up, the Little Bird's grated floor beneath him stained with a few splashes and droplets of red._

 _Only a few, because a majority of the damage is internal. Soap needs a doctor, and Price is struggling to figure out where to get one. Where they can go and not be hunted by the poison Shepherd has already spread._

' _141 must have gone to hell while I was gone if you're going to sit there and question a superior officer, Soap,' Price says, cocking an eyebrow - tone deadpan. It's his way of teasing - like they aren't in the shit. Like they haven't just lost everything and are hanging on by a thread. 'Now lock it up and don't move. I need to make a call.'_

 _The phone Price pulls out is flat, black, and shiny - a Blackberry Priv. An expensive trophy from the man who'd just succeeded in turning Soap into a shish kabob._

'… _How new age of you,' Soap murmurs, eyelids drooping as Price starts to dial._

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

 **Two Weeks Earlier**

 ** _August 16th, 15:40:23  
_** ** _London, England_**

 _Cameras flash in the conference room - the noise a sharp staccato, fighting to drown out the Defence Minister's words._

' _\- we are investigating reports of former British special forces' involvement in the recent Ultranationalist led attacks -'_

 _Watching from the shadows behind the speaker's podium, Jack MacMillan stands with his arms crossed - his sharp gaze scouring the sea of faces, listening with rapt attention. He pauses on a pretty young woman in the front row, watching as she pushes her spectacles up her nose. She's a left wing media pundit - beholden to_ ** _The Observer_** _._

 _He's seen her work, though he's never had much of a taste for it - his issue with the publication growing once he'd started starring in it. Headlines about corruption, maltreatment in the tier one divisions directly under his command. Inflammatory opinion pieces about his integrity, his character. One particular passage, etched in his brain._

… _It's an old boys club, rooted in tradition befitting of the stone age. Over the past few weeks it has become clear that the Director of Special Forces would rather see men and women brutalised under the military's outdated and damaging modus operandi, than dare to question the poisonous culture running rife in the organisation. Fourteen suicides so far this year, the latest of which was a twice-decorated veteran from Cornwall…_

 _If MacMillan hadn't been an old hand at this, he'd have had a few choice words for her. Still had them, truth be told, but he was smart enough to never let them see the light of day._

 _Almost as if she can sense his tempered disgruntlement, Chloe Marks glances up - head tilting to the side as she meets his eyes. A grin tugs at her lips as she realises she has his attention, her fingers tinkling at him in a small, smug little wave._

 _MacMillan simply looks away._

' _\- I am unfortunately unable to discuss details of the investigation at this time, but I would like to assure our constituents that we are doing everything within our power to understand how these allegations came to be -'_

 _His phone starts to buzz, buried deeply in his pocket._

 _On autopilot, MacMillan reaches for it - digging around in the jacket of his uniform and angling to step out into the hallway with a certain kind of subtlety. Closing the door behind him with slightest of noises, he looks at the screen of his device, illuminated as it vibrates in his hand._

 _It's an unknown number - or it is to his phone, at least. In the recesses of his mind, MacMillan knows that he's seen it before - having had more than one conversation with the caller about poached resources. Good men lured from the regiment with fat pay checks and false promises._

 _As his thumb taps the screen to answer, another memory surfaces - a message, sent days earlier - leaving a sour taste in his mouth._

 ** _Don't trust The General - $._**

 _MacMillan's expression tightens ever so slightly, as he raises the device to his ear._

 _'Shepherd,' he says, tone cold. Hard._

 _He understands that Price - Price was..._ ** _is_** _still recovering. The darkness of the Gulag having left a mark that can never been undone. He understands that a part of Price is damaged - that his perspective has changed._

 _But there's still a level of trust - a friendship spanning decades. MacMillan might have questioned Price, but he'd always be the first to believe him._

 _On the other end of the line, there's the whine of an engine. The hum of rotor blades. He almost has to turn the volume down - halfway through pulling the phone away when a voice stops him._

 _'...Mac.'_

 _A moment - a breath. For the first time in a long time, MacMillan feels a hollow, sinking feeling in his gut._

 _'What have you done, lad?' It's low, resigned - the question rumbling out of his throat as he closes his eyes, already knowing the answer._

 _'... What needed to be done.'_

 _MacMillan checks the corridor - sees the body of people through frosted glass panes next to him. This isn't a conversation he should be having. Not here, of all places. Not now, with the shitstorm brewing._

 _Still... he doesn't hang up. It's not an option to._

 _'J-'_

 _Price interrupts, quickly. 'Don't talk. Just listen.'_

 _What's said out loud can matter here - that's a fact they both know. 'I'm listening.'_

' _Soap's injured. Bad.' Price swallows, audibly, on the other end - a tell. The man had very few, but this - a situation with high stakes, far outside of his control - was exactly the kind of circumstances that could crack his composure. 'I need a place to take him. Somewhere that knows how to treat more than a grazed knee.'_

' _And off the beaten path, I take it?'_

' _I'm out of friends, Mac,' Price says. 'I doubt the world is going to remember me all that fondly in the morning.'_

 _MacMillan can't stop his mouth tugging upwards at that, despite the utter seriousness of the conversation. Despite the fact that it could very likely be their last. 'I don't think the world has ever remembered you all that fondly, lad.'_

 _A grunt echoes back at him, distorted by static._ _'Bad taste.'_

' _Hm,' MacMillan hums. He lets his feet walk him further and further away from the media circus, his analytical side kicking in. The gravity of what Price has done isn't lost on him, but there's a reason. It's not clear to him right now, but it will be. 'So our extended family isn't going to welcome you with open arms.'_

' _Not likely.'_

' _Well that's not great,' MacMillan rubs his chin, grimacing. 'Where are - no, I imagine I can guess.'_

 _He paces. Shepherd had raised flags in the past, but any underhanded dealings had been left covered in the face of his overwhelming patriotism. Of course, that didn't mean MacMillan wasn't aware of his networks, his bases of operation. Letting a PMC force run loose with the amount of power Shepherd had?_

 _Not bloody likely._

 _Price is in the Middle East. Afghanistan, Pakistan. There's been increased activity in the region. MacMillan knows, because he's only just helped orchestrate a joint squadron of SAS and their sister SASR to investigate._

' _If you can't trust the hand that feeds you, then go the route of least resistance,' he says, eyeing his hand. Turning it over and inspecting his nails. 'We don't always deal with force. Sometimes we use our better halves to steal hearts and minds instead.'_

' _Rousing civilians isn't what I planned on doing when I woke up this morning, Mac.'_

' _Sounds like you've been doing a lot of things you didn't plan on this morning,' MacMillan says, rolling his shoulders - trying to ease the tension. It doesn't work. 'I'm sorry, lad. But it's the best I can do.'_

' _I know.' Price answers, words strained. '…I suppose I already knew.'_

' _Just wanted to hear my voice, eh?'_

 _It's meant to be a joke, but MacMillan isn't half as teasing as he'd intended to be. An age ago, when Price was a proud, hotshot lieutenant too talented for his own good, MacMillan had been the man to set him straight. To offer advice and guidance. Support, when needed. With the passage of time, Price had inevitably come into his own - though he'd kept that pride - needing MacMillan less and less as he rose through the ranks. Yet sometimes, in rare moments of need, they always seemed to find themselves in these conversations._

 _Price snorts softly, though he doesn't deny it - letting the silence stretch out, the background noise of the helicopter all MacMillan can register until he speaks again. '… Stay safe, Mac.'_

' _You too, son,' MacMillan says, the heaviness they'd kept at bay with light hearted banter bleeding back in as the finality strikes home. Price has spilled blood - bringing on a reckoning he's not sure the man can outlast. 'Don't linger too long in one place.'_

' _I never do.'_

 _In the stark, silent emptiness of the hallway, the line goes dead._

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

It wasn't the fan that had woken him.

Bare feet scuffing against cement floors, Price rolls out of bed tense and alert - reaching for the Browning High Power resting on his bedside table. The sound of the safety flicking off echoes in the darkness, as the pounding gets louder.

Two weeks on the outskirts of Kabul, and Price knows he's broken a cardinal rule.

They've lingered too long.

* * *

 _A/N - Thank everyone so much for the reviews last chapter - **Urgentorange, Baffled Queen, lest-horror-it-brings -** you guys are amazing x)._

 _I also would like to clarify that the 'bonnie lass' Price refers to early on in the chapter, is a reference to Sassysatsuma's lovely OC Lara from her fanfiction Caught In The System. Written in with her permission, of course._


	4. Chapter 4

**Sleeping Dogs  
** Chapter Four

* * *

The Soviet War in Afghanistan might have officially ended 27 years ago, but the effects of Soviet involvement in the region were still remembered by some - that, Nikolai knew with a certain kind of clarity.

Too young to have touched the conflict in the beginning, he'd been deployed in 1988 as Russia began its withdrawal. Despite their forces ramping down, the fighting hadn't lessened. Nikolai saw his fair share of carnage in those months - was baptised by more than one fire. When they'd left, the country had fallen right back into civil war.

He'd been naive, then. Ignorant. He hadn't realised how interconnected the world was – how nearly every sovereign state was constantly locked in a game of cat and mouse behind closed doors. Russians may have physically left the arid, unforgiving landscape of Afghanistan, but their money was still padding political coffers. Funding regimes. Inciting violence, instability. _Coup d'_ _états_.

They had never truly left, meddling with power and influence. Every now and again the occasional black ops mission was greenlit, but it wasn't until Russia decided to help consolidate the Northern Alliance's forces against the Taliban that Nikolai had found his way back to the sandpit. Piloting choppers across the Afghan border without Government authorisation. Sometimes carrying munitions - sometimes carrying the men who best knew how to use them.

It had taken him a while, but eventually he'd come to realise that the lines between right and wrong, good, and evil, weren't set in stone. Forever shifting in the dark, brutal nature wartime.

And with that understanding, there had come another. One that he hoped would be his saving grace.

 _Friends could be found in even the most hostile of places._

You just had to know where to look.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

Price cracks the bedroom door, his Browning HP a cold, but familiar weight in his hands. The narrow corridor beyond is dark, pokey - its walls the only encroaching silhouettes within the small space.

Outside, the ruckus continues. Fists beating incessantly on wooden panelling, as though determined to pummel it off its hinges. Price huffs a breath and slides out into the hallway, his combat boots remaining forgotten in his wake.

Wasn't like he'd need them. He couldn't, _wouldn_ _'t_ , leave the house.

There's no moonlight, no _streetlight_ ,flooding through the window ahead of him. Just black, filtered into definition as Price's eyes adjust. He stays to the right of it, footsteps soundless now as he pads closer, closer, Browning at his hip.

Seconds pass - the door knob starts to twist, whoever is on the other side trying to override his security. Gaze hardening at the sight, Price reaches out with his free hand, fingers closing around the moving metal, thumb disengaging the lock.

Price knows that the people out for his blood wouldn't knock - knows that he can handle who's on the other side.

He wrenches inwards.

It's abrupt, sudden. The element of surprise working a little too well as a dark shape comes stumbling over the threshold, balance lost. They hit him, the top of their head colliding with his jaw - the softness of breasts pressing against him.

Years of training freeze him in place - index finger stalling on the trigger, the soldier in him standing down.

This isn't a threat.

… It's a bloody civilian.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

In the heart of Kabul's Bagrami District, Nikolai pauses on a curb, glancing to either side. Brake lights glint in the distance, the smell of exhaust lingering in the air. The bus he'd just rode in on has left a trail of thick, dark smoke saturating the street.

Fuel efficiency hadn't quite made it to this corner of the world.

Coughing into his hand with a grimace, Nikolai starts to cross the road, pace picking up into a hurried jog as a horn blasts. He jumps onto the opposite path just as a car zips by him, wheels grinding the bitumen with a vengeance. Annoyed, because he knows that _zhopa_ had hit the accelerator just for him, Nikolai throws his hand up, flipping the bird.

He bites down on his tongue, though, keeping his far-from-polite thoughts to himself. It'd been uncomfortable enough, wedged into a vehicle with forty other passengers like a tin-packed sardine - his pale skin making him a curiosity. Revealing his nationality on top of that to any stranger would be a badly played card on his part. Even if the bastard did deserve to be called a glorified goat fucker.

Scowling, Nikolai slowly turns away as the red hatchback disappears from view. There's sweat trickling down his face. Patches of it staining his clothes. The heat isn't helping his mood - the fact that the Afghan summer should have ended a month ago not lost on him. Grumbling under his breath, he stalks the last couple of metres to the telephone booth.

Neon yellow and nestled on a quiet corner, it's only when he's standing in front of it that Nikolai notices the holes in its metal siding. He eyes them for a second as he pulls the phone of its hook, knowing exactly what they were.

There was a reason this place wasn't listed as a tourist hotspot.

Not particularly concerned about it himself, Nikolai puts it out of mind and punches in a number.

The line hangs for a moment, before it starts ringing.

He rests his free hand on the cash collection box, fingers drumming against it as he waits - dark eyes flicking around, scanning his surroundings. On the fourteenth ring, somebody picks up.

'… _Who is this?'_

Sharp, accented Dari. Nikolai understands the suspicion - the number having laid dormant for well over two decades, now.

'A friend,' he answers without preamble, his own Dari rough and clunky in his ears. It almost makes him wince. He's out of practise. 'An old friend.'

Silence. Nikolai imagines that the cogs are turning, his contact sifting through years of memories to match a face to the voice. There are only three people that could be standing where Nikolai is now, having this conversation.

Eventually, the man speaks. ' _… And what does this old friend want?'_

'What you owe me, my friend.' Nikolai says, tone light, despite the hard edge in his expression. 'A favour.'

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

She smells like petrol.

The realisation dawns a heartbeat after the first, instinct bringing Price's hands up to grip the woman, fingers wrapping around her forearms briefly, nails biting into skin, before he shoves her backwards. It's not gentle - anger tying a hard, steely knot in his gut - and she staggers with a startled yelp, almost toppling back out the door. Price brings his pistol up, aiming dead centre.

'Don't move,' he orders, tone hard, _furious_. Dripping with very real threat.

Because this was how seasoned soldiers died. Blown to pieces by little girls that looked just as innocent as their own daughters.

Price hears a rattling breath - hysteria on the verge of boiling over. The woman regains her balance, trembling so violently that he can see it in her silhouette.

'Please, please-'

She pitches forward, one foot stepping towards him.

'I said don't bloody move.' Price barks, words louder, cracking like thunder. It's his command voice, solid and demanding. Brooking no argument. And it works.

The woman stops, arms flying into the air. Surrendering. Price isn't sure if she's seen the gun - she might have felt it, when they'd been scrambling - or if she's just trying to placate him. Either way, it works - easing some of the tension as he sees that her hands are empty, that there's nothing strapped to her chest as her shirt tugs upward, exposing her stomach.

No detonator, no vest.

No bomb.

'I'm sorry, I'm…' A choked sob interrupts her, and she fights to get it under control, dropping her head as though to hide her emotions. 'I'm sorry, I did not-'

'Who are you?' Price cuts her off bluntly. The stink of petrol is still in his nose, confusing him - his mind struggling to connect the dots. She's speaking Pashto. One of Afghanistan's major dialects, but not in this District. Meaning she was part of an ethnic minority, banging on his door in the middle of the night. Doused in fuel. 'What are you doing here?'

He's starting to piece it together - the picture ugly, the implications warranting far more than a simple headache.

'I'm so-'

'Stop apologizing.'

It's snapped harshly, with no small amount of irritation. Price wants answers. Needs them to understand what's going on here. To assess the dangers and decide a course of action. But when her only response is a soft whimper, he pauses. The noise washing over him, speaking to a part of him that's far too human.

Every playbook he's ever known has the same cardinal rule - _don't hurt civilians._ The only exception being if they were charging at you with murder in their eyes, and a weapon.

This one doesn't have a weapon.

She's standing several feet away, scared. Crying. A lot of his colleagues, back in the day, had known him as an old breed, traditional type. There were certain roles and stereotypes he lived by. Certain rules he'd follow to a T.

Ever so slightly, he lowers his gun.

'Your name, love,' he says, with marginally less bite, his words slow as he adapts to the new language. He wasn't necessarily fluent in Arabic, but he knew enough to ask the important questions. 'Answer me.'

Another whimper. 'R-Rana.'

'Rana,' Price nods once. 'And what are you doing here, Rana?'

There's a sniff, a few more shaking breaths. Rana looks at him - or tries to, her eyes flicking beyond his own to stare at something behind him. '… H-help.'

'Help?'

'Please! They said… they said the Westerners could help. They said you do things differently-'

Price stares at her, almost disbelieving. Of all the people desperate to track him down, it's a young woman in need of a white knight that finds her way to his doorstep

'Who told you that?' Price demands after a moment, brow creasing as he frowns. There's nobody he can think of. Nobody who might put that thought in her head.

Except -

'She did,' Rana sobs, like he's supposed to know who 'she' is. 'T- The doctor.'

\- that bloody little MSF _bint_.

If there was one woman he'd have no qualms about strangling, it was _that_ one. Even if she had saved Soap's life. What little that meant at the moment.

'Look, love-'

Perhaps she hears the rejection in his voice, because before he's even uttered the words, she's launching at him. Crossing the distance he'd adamantly enforced between them in seconds, her fingers clutching at him with complete desperation. Price grunts, quashing his surprise enough that he doesn't reflexively drive the butt of his pistol into her face. He tries to push her back again, but this time it quite literally involves prying her off.

'No, no. Please, you _have_ to help me. I swear - _I swear_ I did not do what he's saying. I didn't - I would never -'

'Rana -'

'- he tried to burn me. He is going to _burn me_. Please -'

It's luck, that Price sees it.

Luck, that as he's trying to disentangle himself from Rana - who's clinging to him like a lifeline, her snot and tears wetting his shirt - that he catches the flicker of light from outside. A tiny little flame, illuminating the body of another.

Seconds before it comes arcing towards the both of him.

Price reacts so fast that he doesn't have time to fully comprehend the entirety of the situation before he's literally hauling Rana off her feet, spinning them both around. She cries out - from pain, from fear, he doesn't know. Doesn't think as he half-pushes, half-throws her further into the house.

Something collides with his back.

It's quick and brutal. Price is upright one second and on the ground the next. His head bounces off the concrete, hitting face first. There's a cracking sound - cartilage crunching as his nose bends at an impossible angle. Blood wells in his mouth, streaks down his chin.

For the slightest moment, his vision fades to nothing - his thoughts stutter to a halt. Complete and utter stillness.

Then everything comes back at once.

Price knows what a momentary black out feels like, as his skull throbs so hard that his eyes water, blurring his sight even more than it already is. There's dark on dark, shapes on shapes. He raises his head slowly from the floor, squinting to try and understand what's going on.

Funnily enough, this is familiar territory.

A large, heavy object _thuds_ down next to him, scraping his cheek roughly - the noise distant through the ringing in his ears. It's a boot - he figures that out an instant later, as it moves, _thudding_ down a little ways in front of him. High above, there's another flicker of orange - the only light source in such a confined area, that it seems to illuminate _everything_.

Not that Price can see - his world still limited to blobs, albeit on a slightly brighter canvas.

He still has the presence of mind to put two and two together, though, understanding on a base level that the boot belonged to a man - most likely the same sodding bastard who'd just put him down - and was moving towards Rana. Or the blob Price assumes is Rana, cowering against Soap's door.

The fact that it's Soap's door barely registers - Price's focus solely on the girl. There's a priority here - one that Soap would understand.

Without hesitation, Price's fingers snap closed around his MIA Browning - the gun having been knocked from his grip. Swearing thickly around a mouthful of blood, Price switches tactics, reaching out to grab his target's ankle and _wrenching_ hard.

He doesn't have the strength that he used to - that was stolen from him in the Gulag, one item on a long, long list of things that he's still fighting to get back - but he does have the element of surprise, and enough muscle to make it count.

There's a loud snarl as Price's target unbalances, crashing down on one knee. Price hears it with crystal clarity as his senses slowly return. An echoing clatter follows as the now extinguished lighter falls in the scuffle, but it's quickly drowned out. Somewhere, Rana is screaming bloody murder, though apparently nobody's listening.

Price drags himself up the Afghan's leg, fingers digging into the belt around the man's waist - trying to pull him down completely. There's resistance. A twisting body - a fist, lashing out violently to try and clout Price about the head again. It misses - the virtue of darkness and clumsy panic.

Realising he's not going to win the upper hand like this, Price starts to drag himself up further, grunting with the effort - using his weight rather than his strength to force the man to the ground. An elbow in his ribs almost dislodges him, but he grits his teeth, pulling, _pulling,_ _ **pulling**_ until he reaches just the right point to overbalance them both.

With haggard, panting breaths, the two of them slam back onto the ground.

' - you fucker. Get off of me, _get off_ -'

A burst of adrenaline gives his target an edge. The realisation that Price is playing to _win_ in the most absolute way possible dawns, and the Afghan flings himself upward, the back of his skull catching Price's already buggered nose.

Pain - blinding, dizzying. Price rolls off the bastard, momentarily seeing stars.

' - s _on of a bitch_ -'

The Afghan is on top of him in seconds, Christmas-ham sized fists raining down on Price in quick succession. His lip splits. His eye gets hit so hard it starts to swell shut. Hot, sticky blood cascades over his chin as he coughs.

With blind, searching hands, Price reaches out - finding the bastard's collarbone, bypassing his neck. Looking for something _vulnerable_.

He finds it.

Price holds the man's face with two hands, his thumbs stretching to press _savagely_ into the bastard's eyes, his nail puncturing one almost instantly.

His ear drums are almost shattered by the resulting howl of agony - the body on top of him seizing, trying to pull away. Price feels fingers wrap around his wrists, tugging, _ripping_.

But there's no stopping.

To stop is to die instead.

Price ignores the pleas for mercy, the arms beating at his own, and drives his thumbs deeper, forcing them as far as they'll go, _and more_. The left eyeball goes first. It moves under his thumb a little, being pushed back into the socket. Wet starts to trickle down his skin. Warm, thick. Then the right starts to move.

The Afghan starts to thrash wildly, emitting a high-pitched wail. Price pushes upwards as the bastard wrenches backwards, using the man's strength to get himself upright. Still attached to his face, Price straddles his victim, slowly, methodically leaning on him, shoving him down.

It doesn't matter where he's hit. Doesn't matter how much it hurts.

There's no stopping.

Suddenly, abruptly, the Afghan stops yelling. It's at the exact same time that Price feels an odd sensation - like he's jabbed a water balloon so hard that it's _burst_. Something _squelches_ \- liquid pouring over his hand.

A garbled, choking sound. The man slumps the rest of the way to the floor, limp. Price doesn't skip a beat, shoring up his position. Throwing his entire mass behind what he's doing.

Another squelch. The gurgling starts to taper off - the Afghan twitching beneath him. Blood spurts out from around Price's thumbs, gravity eventually dragging it to the ground with a soft, steady _pitter patter_.

Still, he forces himself deeper, _deeper,_ _ **deeper**_ , digging into meat - tearing holes in it, until the man stops moving all together.

Until there is silence - the only breathing he can hear, his own.

Price stays there for a time, gazing down at the obscene sight before him, tempered only slightly by the limited light. It's like he's looking through a grey filter - the gore censored out with desaturation, though it does nothing about the all-the-too-familiar stench of blood. Of a bladder voided somewhere before or after death.

In the background, a door clicks closed.

It catches his attention, thrusting awareness onto him like a white hot brand. Price pulls his thumbs out of the man with a wet, sickening _pop -_ leaving two large, gaping holes in a face frozen in terror. This time, he barely glances at it - instead climbing onto his feet and shaking his hands, as though that might clean them.

Behind him, a whisper gives him pause.

'Thank you.'

Price had honestly thought she'd left.

'Don't thank me, love.' He rasps after a long, long moment, far too aware of the mess he's made, his heart refusing to thump back into a normal rhythm. '… I doubt this has solved either of our problems.'

* * *

 _A/N - Thank you to everybody who has followed, fav'd and reviewed so far - it really means a lot :)._


	5. Chapter 5

**Sleeping Dogs  
** Chapter Five

* * *

Soap stands awkwardly in the doorway, not entirely sure if he's dead or dreaming. Either options were both equally likely at this point, though he'd hoped that if he was really kicking the bucket, there'd have been a little more fanfare. Something that at least said he'd been there, _existed_ , and that even though he'd lost, he'd still fought, tooth and nail until his last ragged breath.

Because _shite_ , while he wasn't looking for something as prolific as exiting the stage to a tune from _The Edinburgh Military Tattoo_ , the thought of slipping away in his sleep left a bitter taste in his mouth.

And if _this_ was all he had to look forward to after following God's white light…

The pub he's in is smaller than the average, targeted more towards hard drinkers and solitude than social outings. There's four walls of wooden panelling and the odd lick of white paint, with a central bar surrounded by stools that were more metal than leather. Stepping further into the place, his bare feet scuffing against swept floorboards, Soap is hit with a sense of Deja vu.

He's been through a couple of rough patches in his life. The kind where whisky has been the answer. Bitter and dulling the pain just enough to make it bearable. But even so, he's never fancied liquor to the point where it's controlled him as much as those poor bastards downing it like candy, and he's never had so many rough patches that he's needed it as a lifeline. But he has, once or twice, followed mates into some of the shadier establishments, and this place happened to look a lot like the _Red Lion_ in _Leicester_.

Which is strange, because the last time Soap had been awake - _and if this is a dream and he does wake up, he's going to bloody well deck Price hard enough that the old man sees stars, the sodding prick_ \- he hadn't been in England. In fact, he'd been so far from England that he was sure he'd only ever see it again in a casket. And that was on the off chance that he _didn't_ end up in an unmarked, shallow grave first.

Considering that a majority of the world is still baying for his blood, Soap doesn't expect that said chance was anything more than a pipe dream.

Disoriented and more than a little confused, now, Soap turns towards the closest patron he can find - a middle-aged bloke with a mullet - and asks his burning question. 'Oi, you. Where am I?'

In front of him, the man - sat at a tiny corner table - slowly looks up from his pint of beer. Bloodshot eyes are framed by a sagging face, and they seem to narrow as they take Soap in. '… Fuck off.'

Apparantly heaven, or his subconscious, had its fair share of _wankers_.

Frowning with mild annoyance and an air of disappointment - an expression that had never failed to guilt even Riley - Soap moves on.

Next stop is the barkeep. From a young age, his father had always told him that if he ever found himself in trouble, to look for the closest authority figure. In here, Soap figured that the staff were probably the highest level of authority he was going to get.

Crossing the room, Soap leans on the hardwood counter and raps it with his knuckles, demanding the attention of the young man working behind it. As their gazes meet, Soap feels an electric shock spike through him - mouth opening but failing to make sounds. The bartender pauses in wiping down a shot glass, eyebrow arching sardonically. 'Can I help you?'

The voice is sharply accented, nasal, and carries zero recognition. Like the man isn't aware that several weeks ago, Soap had plunged a knife into his throat and listened, callously, as he'd choked and gurgled on his own blood,

'I, uh…' Soap swallows thickly, fingers reaching up to brush against his rosary. The cold silver is reassuring, though does little to help him comprehend what's going on. 'Can you tell me where we are, mate?'

'Leicester, England.'

Soap blinks at him. 'You're American.'

The dead man gives him a flat look. 'And you're Scottish, buddy.'

'I… aye,' Soap feels his brows draw together, irritation momentarily winning out over the toxic swirl of emotions in his gut. 'I meant what are _you_ doing here, lad.'

'Working.'

The beginnings of a scowl tug at the edges of Soap's calm. 'Pull the other one. You can't be here.'

'I'm sorry?' The Shadow Company soldier finishes up and crosses his arms, unimpressed. 'Do you have something against us _yanks_?'

 _If it's his own mind making up this bloody bollocks_ … Soap knows he's falling down the rabbit hole, but he can't seem to pull himself up short. 'You're supposed to be dead.'

' _Right._ ' There's a sharp, staccato laugh of disbelief from the dead man. He flicks the towel over his shoulder and shakes his head. 'Look… I'm going to have to cut you off, man.'

'I haven't been drinking,' Soap growls, defensive, his body starting to tense. It would have been intimidating, if he didn't look like he'd just crawled out of a coffin himself. 'I killed you.'

Both of the dead man's eyebrows shoot up now, though his expression reads as more _'I can't believe this muppet_ ' as opposed to anything like astonishment. Which is, Soap realises with a grimace, probably what he should have expected. '… I'm not going to take that as a threat, but if you don't cool it, I'm going to have to get security to escort you out, alright?'

'Mate-'

'Final warning, man.'

Soap's hands become fists on the counter, the hardened, steely expression on his face suggesting that he was very far from letting this go. He has half a mind to vault the bar and give this apparition a good shake – some part of him wanting to know if his arm would go right through the soldier, or hit something solid, warm and _living_.

Evidently picking up on his intentions, the soldier behind the bar side-steps, tracking Soap, his arm disappearing beneath the counter top. Reaching for what Soap presumes is a silent alarm. Looks like he's about to be put on a timer.

Couldn't he have a bloody minute to think?

'Oi-'

Soap's indignation is cut off as a hand clamps down on his shoulder, firm and heavy - the accompanying voice so familiar in his ear that his legs almost buckle.

'Easy, Soap.'

 _This isn't real. Can't be._

The dead man before had thrown him for one hell of a bloody loop, but this dead man was about to steamroll his sorry arse into the dirt.

A glance behind him reveals scruff and a baseball cap that'd been left permanently bloodied by Zakhaev five years ago. The man doesn't seem to be carrying a hint of the trauma, though, a mirror image of the man Soap remembered before those last few moments on the bridge. There's laugh lines and the trademark uptick of his lips that always made him look friendly in a barracks full of guarded professionals. Soap's first mate, first _brother_ in the elite ranks of the SAS. His loss remembered as a constant ache that would… could never really be erased.

For what felt like an eternity, Soap simply stares – his throat feeling tight.

'I know, I know,' the new dead man says after a minute, winking in the same way that had earned a sharp ' _cheeky bastard_ '' from Price on more than one occasion. 'I'm a sight to behold, eh?'

'…Gaz.'

'Hole in one,' his old Lieutenant says, using his grip on Soap to help steer him around. They end up being face to face - almost. Soap had always been a little bit taller. 'Don't forget to breathe, mate.'

The compressed sensation in his chest vanishes, Soap sucking in a lungful of air. 'You-'

 _Are dead_ , he's about to explain - rehashing the to-and-fro of the argument he'd just lost, because somebody, somewhere needs to understand why he's rather publicly losing his marbles. Gaz, though, simply shakes his head, hushing him with a soft noise. It's the same noise Gaz had used to warn him of incoming enemies, whenever they'd found themselves in the shite on a mission gone sideways. That, Soap remembers fondly, had defined most of their career together.

'I need you to lock it up for a minute, Sergeant. Or is it Captain now, I hear?' Gaz grins at him, though there's something careful and calculated in his eye. 'We need to talk, and it's going to be a hell of a lot bloody harder if I have to haul your arse out of a loony bin. Make-believe, or not.'

Soap's head tilts to the side. The answer to the question he's been asking himself since he arrived in the _Twilight Zon_ e washing over him. He's not _dead_ , but _dreaming_.

Somehow, that's not as relieving as it probably should have been.

'Come on,' Gaz orders, breaking Soap out of his thoughts. 'I've got a table in the back. Should help drown out all this irrelevant bollocks you're seeing.'

The satisfaction Soap feels as Gaz looks rather pointedly at the Shadow Company drone is nothing short of vindictive, but he lets it lie as the Lieutenant jerks his head - beckoning for Soap to walk with him. Soap does quietly, obediently moving to follow.

'Any ideas why we're in Leicester?' Soap asks when they're out of earshot, the meaning of the place still lost on him. Gaz might have also been an apparition, but it appeared as though he was there to be infinitely more helpful than anyone else. 'I know I've been to this place before, but…'

It's a leading question. Gaz stops next to a pair of chairs on either side of a tiny little cafe table. They're tucked behind an inner wall, giving them an impromptu privacy screen. 'You and I came here once, when Griffin was going through his divorce. Helped me drag the mopey sod out before he needed a new liver.'

The memory clicks into place. That hadn't been a particularly fun night, but unit was family, and family would rather let their brother vomit in the car, their house, and wake up hungover and pissed off the next morning than let them end up in the ER with alcohol poisoning. Gaz had taken that bullet, but Soap had helped scrub the carpets before he left.

'He clocked you one after that, aye?' Soap says as he sits, vaguely recalling Gaz with a black eye after the fact.

'I let him,' Gaz drawls, cocky as he slumps down on the opposite side of Soap. 'Griffin's a right wanker, but he pulled his punch.'

Soap nods once, leaning back. 'Hm.'

'I guess that doesn't really do much for you, does it?' There's a level of understanding in Gaz's expression that helps ease at least some of the tension from Soap's shoulders. 'About figuring out why you're here?'

'Made it as clear as mud,' Soap mutters. Gaz signals a waitress to bring them drinks, and Soap flinches like he's been stung, catching sight of the bouncing curls and painted smile. She's MI6. A woman who'd once worked with them on a joint operation. 'Christ, is she…?'

'No,' Gaz reassures, looking amused as the woman returned with a pitcher of beer. He at least has the decency to wait for her to leave before adding, 'She's here because you fancied her.'

Of course the bastard _hadn't_ had the decency to wait for Soap to finish his first sip of beer, though. Coughing, Soap feels the tips of his ears go red. 'That's not…'

'We saw the way you'd look at her, mate. It was bloody funny – she went out of her way to wear all those low-cut tops for you, and you could only ever look her in the eye. Figures she went all out on the good Catholic boy.' Gaz looks far too amused at that revelation. He tips his glass in a salute - drinks a bit before deciding to rescue his former subordinate from the clearly uncomfortable mess. 'And you, Soap? You'd know better than me, but I expect you're here because you need a drink, eh?'

Soap clears his throat – never one to be knocked down and out by some light-hearted ribbing. 'I have better ways of solving my problems, mate.'

'But you can't solve this one, can you?' Gaz cheerful disposition tempers slightly as he throws Soap a knowing glance. 'You're not exactly here by choice…'

People always said that the truth hurt, but for Soap this particular truth was more of a raging, undying _anger_. Brought on by hurt, sure, because he'd pleaded, begged, _cried_ for it to stop but Price had slid the needle into his skin each time. Locking him in a prison there was no escape from.

It's a betrayal, of the highest fucking order there is. Shepherd might have rammed the knife in, but Price had all but turned him into a vegetable.

'…Didn't you hear the tale of Sleeping Beauty?' Soap says, acerbic, grip on his drink turning white-knuckled. 'It was entirely her idea.'

'Riddles and deflection,' Gaz has always been blunt, honest. 'That's the Price in you, mate. Though I shouldn't expect much else - you've spent five years living in his arse.'

'Best years of my life,' Soap says, still acidic. On a better day, that admission would have been far more genuine. But his better days were behind him.

'Of course they were,' Gaz plays along, though there's a hint of reprimand in his tone. Audible to them both. 'Price is an ornery old bastard, but he brings a level of excitement into your life that you won't find anywhere else.'

'Better than a shot of adrenaline, that's for sure.' Soap grunts, idly playing with a coaster. 'But only because he doesn't do things by the book.'

'Saves a lot of lives that way.'

'So he's supposed to get a Hail Mary pass, aye?' It's hard for him to say - hard for him to fault his OC, because even now, a part of Soap still respects Price. Years of loyalty making it difficult to utter the words. 'He's cost more lives than he's saved. A loose cannon. I should have listened to Riley.'

Riley had warned him, of course. As soon as he realised who Soap had brought back from the Gulag. ' _He'll fuck us all to win his bloody war, MacTavish_.' He's never stopped wondering if he should have listened.

'Not following the advice of your Lieutenant might have caused more of a cock-up than there could have been,' Gaz agrees, hard but softening ever so slightly as Soap flinches. 'But you trusted Price to lead you. There's a reason for that, Soap.'

'Stupidity.'

'No,' Gaz disagrees, sympathy in his gaze. 'He made the tough calls you knew you couldn't.'

'And look where it's bloody gotten me.' Soap laughs, bitter. 'Stuck in a bed, wasting away. Having philosophical discussions with myself, because I'm trapped in my own fucking mind.'

'Better than being trapped in someone else's.' The fact that Gaz doesn't even deny that he's most likely a figment of Soap's imagination is like pouring salt into an open wound. Soap aches, for the man that he'd lost and the people he couldn't talk to. He was well and truly alone in here - on the brink of going mad, if this conversation was anything to go by. Wasn't that the definition of insanity? Hearing voices? Shite, Soap would take Price right now, even with all their baggage ( _the_ _ **hurt**_ _and_ _ **anger**_ _and_ _ **betrayal**_ ) if it meant he could talk to another person. Didn't matter if his OC was going to stick him again - so long as he actually uttered a word. '… You know he loves you, right, mate?'

The words bring his longing and despair to a sharp, resounding _halt_.

Soap looks at Gaz, who's really _not_ Gaz, and tries to understand where that came from. Because the Gaz sitting across from him is actually himself, and that was a _ridiculously_ profound thing to say when Soap was desperately trying to drive the narrative in literally every other direction.

He could admit that he cared for Price, of course - could admit that the old man was family. Soap had grown up being taught that there was no shame in showing those kinds of emotions. But Price… he was an old school, traditional type. Emotions were weakness and it was difficult to find _love_ behind mile-high defences and plains so rough they'd take your skin off even if you so much as _thought_ about tripping.

Didn't stop it from being a reality, though. Soap knows that Price is capable of it. The man might have made a life out of his career, but it didn't mean he'd sacrificed family in the process. His family was with him every day he was on the job, and everyday he wasn't. Soap couldn't count the times the old man had shown up on his doorstep when he'd needed him, full of long-suffering, sardonic wit.

'He's doing this to save you, mate.' Gaz tells him, the face of his old Lieutenant demanding a level of trust Soap couldn't give himself. Maybe that was why he was here. 'He'll do whatever's necessary, because he _can_ lose you, but he bloody well isn't going to let that happen…'

Soap closes his eyes. Frustrated, guilty. 'I-'

Somebody screams.

The noise is like a thousand needles stabbing relentlessly into his eardrums, filling him with panic. Alarmed, Soap scrambles out of his chair - knocking over his beer - and tries to find the source, eyes scanning, heart thumping. But the pub, the people…

Weren't reacting?

It takes a moment for everything to click into place – the blonde MI6 operative putting a concerned hand on his bicep, the dead man rolling his eyes at Soap's latest performance, reaching for the phone and dialling 999 – and when it does, Soap's heart explodes into rapid-fire rhythm. They hadn't - _couldn't_ \- hear it, which meant…

'Soap?' Gaz is on his feet too, features dark with concern. He's circling the table, reaching out - no longer understanding. This… _dream_ wasn't connected to the real world - not like Soap was. 'You alright?'

'Something's wrong,' The distant screaming gets louder, louder, _louder_. It's a woman he's hearing. There isn't a woman in the house, or there hadn't been the last time Soap was conscious long enough to notice, and if there was one now and she was screaming then the old man would be there. Always in the heart of the chaos. 'Something's-'

There's a splintering _crash_ , so close that Soap has to guess that it's just outside of his room. Gaz is alert now, too, stormy gaze locking with Soap's.

'You need to wake up.'

Another crash. More screaming.

 _Price._

A pinch to his shoulder, teeth severing his lip. A shattered glass shard, buried in his palm. Soap starts to tremble, horror pervading through him as the dream stays firmly, vividly in place.

'I… I can't wake up.'

Gaz stares at the blood now gushing out of Soap's hand for a few beats, realisation dawning. There's no way around it - no way through it. The dead man, the woman – they're coming at him now, stony-eyed and determined, forcing him down with restraint. The police, an ambulance is on its way. That's what they tell him as they drive him to the ground – as Gaz watches on, sad, _helpless_.

'I guess we're both shafted, aren't we?'

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

An elbow lashes out, knocking into a bedside table with enough force that it skitters a foot across the floor. There's a shattering noise - the tinkling of glass on cement drowned out by the screaming and banging and dripping of blood - the vials of drugs lying broken and useless in the dark.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

Dust engulfs the Humvee – hiding it in plain sight as the storm swirls around them. The light inside the vehicle dims, dirt clouds obscuring the windows like high quality blackout curtains – individual grains splattering against the glass as though they'd just hauled arse through a swarm of gnats.

'Shit, mate,' the heavily accented voice of an Australian erupts over the noise, lilting with amusement. 'This reminds of the time that Thai whore sat on my face in Bangkok, aye? Her beef curtains blinded me the entire fucking night – I couldn't see shit.'

'Bet you tasted it though, didn't ya, Black?' Another voice drawls – the sturdy, built soldier it belonged to glancing up from his Blue Force Tracker just long enough to cock an eyebrow at the other man. 'How did that go down, huh? Did you swallow?'

Black, or Blackjack – his official designation – simply grins, not in the least bit phased. 'Come on, Brax - only a bitch doesn't-'

'Jesus fucking Christ… I don't want to hear about your fucking sexual exploits, Blackjack. It's giving me a rash just thinking about it,' a third voice, echoing with mild irritation, interrupts. ''Sides – we have company. Let's not ruin his image of us, yeah?'

There's momentary silence – save for the wind roaring outside, and then Blackjack is swivelling in the passenger seat. Dark, grey eyes flick to his Boss for a beat – reading the slightly strained expression on Ace's face before slipping right on over to their 'package'.

Chris 'Toad' Williams glares back.

He's sitting in the back seat – the middle - squashed unceremoniously between Ace – a tall, wiry soldier with a crooked nose and perpetual frown – and Cage – a burly, tight-lipped woman who hadn't uttered a single word to him throughout their trip. There's zip ties on his wrists, binding them together tightly enough to be uncomfortable, and a bandage wrapped – constricting – around his throat. It's hiding something – a cut, stretched so far across his neck Chris isn't even sure how he's still breathing.

The sting of it is what makes him think twice about biting as Blackjack starts to smirk – his anger smouldering just beneath the surface. But there's something else – something Chris can't ignore, every time he looks this fucker in the eyes.

 _( - the rustling of a belt. A room, filled with pain, and blood, and screams, and horrors. There'd been nothing he could do, nothing. Weight, and pressure, and the smell of sweat, the taste of copper – and the tell-tale sound of a silenced gun, ending it before he could be broken any further -)_

'I don't think Chris minds; do you mate?' Blackjack says, rapping his knuckles against Chris' knee. 'And who fucking would, aye? The rest of you sad sacks are too bloody boring. I swear the only way you get to live is through me.'

'Wanker,' Cage remarks, tone flat as she kicks the back of Blackjack's chair. 'Why don't you shut your damn gob and focus on getting our comms. back up? If we have to scrap the fucking 'Vee and walk the rest of the way, I'm going to be scraping sand out of my vag for the next week.'

'Your cooch isn't really my concern, sweetheart,' comes the response, and Chris is momentarily grateful that the Australian's attention has shifted focus. 'And there isn't anything I can do. Antenna's fucked. Comms. are down. Engine's blown to hell. We either wait this shit out, or start hiking. Either way – we're going to miss exfil.'

'Fuck me,' Ace mutters, almost knocking his sunglasses from his face as he rubs his forehead. 'This day is just getting better and better.'

There's a snort of laughter, followed by a loud thump. Brax eventually gives up on his Tracker – the feed he'd had turning to static. 'Yeah. Another wild goose chase in the middle of arse fuck nowhere, leading to jack shit. Price and MacTavish ain't here no more – something I'm sure our little pal could have told us half a day ago, couldn't ya?'

Chris finds himself meeting Brax's gaze, as hard as he tries not to, in the rear-view mirror. Unlike Blackjack, there's nothing holding him back this time.

'Fuck you,' he rasps, his lip curling into an uncharacteristic sneer. He was a prisoner – a wanted man, but the 141 was his family, and he'd lead all four of these bastards straight to Hell long before he dared lead them anywhere else.

In the front, Brax tilts his head – thoughtful.

'For someone we just pulled out of a very bad situation, you don't seem all that grateful, bud.'

'What the hell do you expect, man? This isn't exactly a hot tub at a fucking weekend resort. I'm starting to think I liked the other place better.'

A lie. Chris has to stop himself from swallowing, when he catches Blackjack looking at him in his peripheral vision. Damn it.

'Alright, alright,' Ace breaks in, authoritative as he straightens up in his seat. Movements tainted with exhaustion. 'Stop antagonising him, before he rips his damn stitches. We don't exactly have a medic on standby this time.'

A harrumph – a grumble. Everyone falls quiet as their leader scratches his chin, nails scraping against stubble. He isn't happy. Hasn't been since the beginning of this cluster fuck.

'We'll have to hump it. We're ten mikes out from the LZ – that's not far. We know our targets ain't in Haji land anymore – they've scarpered. Our best bet is to get out of here, regroup, and try this again with better Intel. Understood?'

Agreeance echoes throughout the cabin, in a variety of flavours. Chris is the only one to ignore him – instead going back to studying his stained fatigues. Stumbling around in a hostile desert with this rag tag group of mercenaries.

Fucking perfect.

'Storm's not getting any better, ladies. Let's get this train moving.'

There's shifting – rustling in the car, the creaking of seats as four people start moving around. They pull on masks, lock and load their weapons. Chris blanches as something – fingers, graze the side of his face in the commotion. He pulls back on reflex, brow creasing – a little slow in identifying what's going on.

Blackjack is leaning into the back, fastening a bandana fastened around Chris' neck.

'Cool it, mate,' Blackjack says, tugging the cloth up to cover the lower half of Chris' face. 'Here – so you don't choke.'

Had Cage not opened her door at that exact moment – letting Afghanistan's brutal sand storm in to tear at Chris like an enraged Pitbull – Chris might have thanked him.

Might have.

As it was – he was too busy trying not to suffocate.

 _Fuck._

* * *

 _A/N - As usual, I'd like to give a big thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. I know I'm not the most prompt updater, and I sincerely hope to have Chapter Six out to you a lot quicker, but please know that your encouragement and kind words are a very big driving force behind my motivation. I really appreciate your feedback 3._

 _Also, a very special thank you to Katie, my beta, who is 100% the reason I have managed to post this week._


End file.
